


La Vie en Rose

by non_canonical



Category: Being Human, Being Human (UK)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood Drinking, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, F/M, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Original Character Death(s), Regicide, Torture, Violence, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-06
Updated: 2012-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-07 02:34:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/425937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/non_canonical/pseuds/non_canonical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts as an act of mercy, a jailer setting his captive free.  But no good thing ever lasts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Vie en Rose

**Author's Note:**

> AU – diverges from canon pre-series 4.
> 
> Disclaimer:   _Being Human_ belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC.

"Here it comes," Leo said.

That's how it all began.  A dingy cellar and a vampire who stopped and turned back, who took his hand.

The others didn't just let them go, of course.  The room echoed with shrieks, with the crunch of wood through bone.  Hal grinned – the grin of a man who enjoyed killing, even killing his own kind – and when he unlocked the manacles, Leo hesitated.  But the change was starting to burn, deep down in his marrow, and time was a luxury that he couldn't afford.

"I thought you wanted to leave," Hal laughed.

So they left; it was as simple and as impossible as that.

Leo's thought about that night over the years, as obligation turned to respect, and respect mellowed into friendship.  There were good days and bad, but even on the best Hal only ever knew a restless, watchful kind of peace.  At first, Leo felt sorry for him, for the perpetual tension that was so painful to watch.  Then came the Kia-Ora incident, and he found Hal, shirtless and unbuttoned, pinning a screaming Pearl to the floor and trying to – well, he doesn't like to think about it.  They had to get the chains out, for the first time in decades.  

After they let him go, Hal would flinch whenever one of them came close.  Leo saw the anxiety twitching through his friend's body, and he realised that it wasn't such a bad thing after all.  They'd all become complacent.  They kept Hal busy after that; they focused on routine.

So when Hal goes out to buy the morning paper and doesn't come home, Leo knows that something has gone badly wrong.  He blu-tacks an apology in the barber's shop window, and he takes Pearl out to help him search.  They try the cemetery and the park, all the places Hal might have gone for peace and quiet.  Then the pubs, the bars, the nightclubs: the places he might have gone for an entirely different reason.

The next morning, Leo checks the newspapers, but there are no headlines shrieking about vicious murders, no parents appealing for the whereabouts of their teenage daughters.  Not knowing is almost as bad.  On the third day, Leo looks out of the window and sees a big, black car roll to a halt across the road.  There's a man in the back; his dead white face peers from the shadows, watching Hal as he walks over to the shop.

Hal: he's back.  Leo's heart begins to pound.  There's a poise, a stillness about the man that Leo's never seen before, and knows beyond doubt that he's failed.  Pearl is upstairs.  He hopes that she stays there, because he doesn't want her to see what's about to happen.  Leo pushes himself up out of his chair.  

"Hal, please."  

He isn't begging for himself – he's an old man now, and death doesn't scare him – it's the rest of humanity that he's afraid for.  Leo tilts up his chin, the way he did in that stinking cellar all those years before, but Hal just gives the slightest shake of his head.

"I'm sorry," Leo tells him.  "Sorry this wasn't enough."

Hal smiles, and it's nothing like the smile of the man who was his best friend.  

"Are you ready, Leo?"  Hal takes him by the throat.  "Here it comes."

\---

"Well, there goes softly-softly," Cutler grumbles, as they watch the War Cabinet being crucified in the middle of Parliament Square.

"About bloody time," Fergus snarls.  "I'll go and bang a few nails in myself."

Hal glances round.  There's a frown on his face, and Fergus has been with him long enough to know when to shut up.  Cutler smirks at him behind Hal's back.  The little wanker gets to stand behind his maker, while Fergus is relegated another step back.  Bloody protocol.  Eventually the screaming subsides, and they leave the politicians to the slow business of dying.  They have people to take care of this sort of thing for them now; Fergus never knew that war could be so boring.

"Don't worry," Hal tells him.  "This is just the beginning."

With Britain largely cowed, Mr Snow sends them abroad.  It's been the best part of two centuries since Fergus and Hal were let loose in Europe.  The weapons have changed, but the violence and the blood are the same as ever.  It's not all open warfare, more's the pity: there are surrenders and sieges, and all those tedious negotiations.  But then the old Soviet Bloc decides it fancies its chances, and this is what Fergus was waiting for.

They drink their fill.  They kill whole towns and leave others terrified into obedience.  They recruit strategically, or on a whim.  The Slavic girls taste just as good as Fergus remembers, and Hal lets him take a detour through the Crimea, just for old times' sake.  Except it's not all like the old days, not with that tosspot Cutler hanging around.  Fergus has no idea what Hal sees in the man, apart from a pretty mouth and a nice arse.  It's not like Hal to go soft, not the real Hal – this Hal.

"Do we have to get so close to the fighting?" Cutler asks.  He actually puked the first time he saw a full-scale battle.

"If you don't like it here," Hal tells him, "I could send you to work for Mr Snow."  And that – thank god – finally shuts the little prick up.  For a time.

They return to Britain, once the war in the east starts winding down.  

"They've become complacent," Hal says.  "They still think this is just a regime change."

So they're all rounded up – the humans and the werewolves – and Hal has a moment of inspiration.  

"We have to show our faces," he says when they attend the opening of the first camp, but Fergus knows he's only there to watch the dog fights.  The humans put up a much better struggle than they used to.

"Hal's started smoking again," Cutler observes, when they're sitting in the car waiting for Hal to finish shaking hands.

"So what?" Fergus snaps.  

"Nothing.  Just saying.  I thought you might have noticed, that's all."

"One of these days," Fergus warns, because he's had it up to here with Cutler's bullshit.  Cutler flashes him that smirk again, the one that really gets under his skin.

"Let's move into the Tower," Fergus urges on the drive back to London.  "We could flood the moat, have a proper drawbridge."

Hal shakes his head.  "No central heating," he says – and since when did Hal give a fuck about things like that? – "Besides, we won't be staying long."

They still have half a world to conquer.

\---

She had a name before the war.  The parents she can't remember gave it to her.  The wolf and the ghost who looked after her must have used it, but they didn't reveal it before they died, so the vampires named her Nina.  Somehow, it doesn't feel right on her, but it's better than simply being called the War Child.

Nina lacks for nothing, except her freedom and anyone she can call a friend.  The resistance tried to rescue her on several occasions, but each time it ended with a pile of bodies and her as much a prisoner as ever.  She's tried to escape, as well – once, she even made it off the grounds – but Mr Snow rounded up the entire staff, and he made her watch what he did to them.  Her last attempt was over a year ago; she hasn't planned another.  On her good days, she manages to convince herself that she's simply being pragmatic.

Mr Snow visits when he has the time.  He has the same arrogance as every other vampire, but he wears it lightly.  He's comfortable at the top of the food chain.  Snow scares her, but she likes him as much as she likes any of them.

"Is it really necessary?" Nina asks, when he tells her the latest news from the front.  "All this killing."

"Do you know how many wars I've lived through?" he responds.  "Vietnam.  Korea.  The Second World War and the First.  The Boer War.  The Crimea.  Shall I go on?"

He rests his hand lightly on hers.  Her skin is nearly as pale: it's a rare treat to be allowed outside for any length of time.

"You're a violent species," Snow says.  "Humans have killed more humans than vampires have, and for no better reason."

Snow never lies to her; none of them do.  She's never decided if it's meant as a kindness.

"Hal is back," he tells her.  "I'm sure he'll drop by later to pay his respects."

Hal: Nina's known him all her life, and all her life she's heard the stories about his cruelty, his violence, his appetites.  He's never been anything other than the perfect gentleman with her.  Maybe she's his refuge from all of that, although she can't imagine why – if he truly is a monster – he feels the need to flee from what he's done.

There's a formal banquet.  Hal is the victorious hero, but she's the guest of honour.  She's the perpetual guest of honour, like a captive queen, stripped of all power.  They sit at the high table, the War Child on Snow's left hand, and Lord Hal on his right.  She leaves before the bloodier entertainments start.

Hal escorts her to her room, and when he kisses her it's a surprise, but not an unpleasant one.  She under no illusions, but that doesn't mean she wants to die a virgin.  Hal spends hours simply coaxing her to pleasure, and she's ready – more than ready – when he finally buries himself inside her.  He's patient and gentle, and she can't believe he's done all the things that people claim.

Mr Snow himself knocks on her door in the morning, and he smiles at her when he requests Hal's presence.  She wonders if this was just another ploy to keep her happy, if Hal was only following his master's orders.  They never lie to her, but they don't always tell her the truth.

It doesn't matter: she'll take every fragment of a normal life that they're prepared to give her.  When Hal comes back again that evening, she's waiting for him.

\---

Cutler's seasick all the way across the Atlantic; they dock at Norfolk, but things don't get any better.

Cutler doesn't want to be a soldier.  He hates the way they're always on the move, over roads choked with abandoned vehicles and pitted with craters.  They make their headquarters in derelict mansions and empty hotels.  Often there's no running water, no power, no heat; Cutler hasn't had internet access since they left Washington.  He's mentioned it to Hal, but he has a nasty feeling the new regime isn't going to make superfast broadband a priority.

They fall back to Newark while they assemble the rest of their army.  The local commanders line up to kneel and kiss Lord Hal's hand, and they bring him tribute – not gifts or sweeteners or bribes, but actual bloody tribute.  Sometimes literally.

"It's all so fucking medieval," Cutler sneers, but he gets to stand at Hal's side, so it's not all bad.  And he gets to share Hal's bed: not just him, of course, and not all the time, but more often than the rest.  He's grateful for whatever crumbs Hal chooses to throw him; some things never change.  Most of the time it hardly rankles.  

Anyway, it doesn't do to complain too loudly these days, even if you are a vampire.

They reach the Hudson, and Hal gives the order: don't feed, don't recruit, just kill.  It's the last stronghold of free humanity, and he wants to make an example.  "Show no mercy" – Cutler doesn't know who came up with that slogan, but they must have known his maker.  It's what their troops shout when they massacre New York City.

When it's over, they stand at the top of the Empire State Building and look down on the wreck of Manhattan.

"The world belongs to us now," Hal says.

"And we can't even have a proper party," Fergus mutters.  "Everybody's dead."

Cutler would never admit it, but Fergus has a point.  They need to leave a certain number of people alive, or they're going to starve.  Even Hal doesn't seem to grasp the logistics of the thing.  Or maybe he simply doesn't care.  The power's out across most of the city, but the fires are still raging.  The orange glow casts unexpected shadows, turning Hal's face into a stranger's.  If an Old One wanted to kill himself, he'd be the sort of take the whole world with him.  

But Hal laughs and throws an arm around Fergus' shoulders.  It turns out that he had a few girls put aside to celebrate.  Someone's even managed to clean them up and find them fresh clothes.  Not that they'll be needing them.  They get drunk on champagne and blood and sex.  Not in that order: Hal's tastes tonight run towards something with a pulse.  And maybe it's the way the girls scream so deliciously, or maybe it's the booze, but Fergus sheds his clothes and joins them on the bed.  Cutler strokes himself to the sight of Hal fucking the man into the mattress.  

Cutler wakes to find a dead girl glued to him with sweat and blood; he gingerly pulls himself free.  Fergus is asleep, sprawled on his stomach where Hal left him, but Cutler can still picture the way his face contorted with pleasure, the way he begged for more.  Cutler slides a finger down the crevice of the man's buttocks and finds it sticky with Hal's semen.  Arousal flashes through him at the memory of Hal's cock, glistening as it pumped in and out of that tight pucker.  Cutler shrugs: why not? He eases his way inside.

Fergus startles awake.  "You dirty bastard," he spits.  Then Cutler thrusts deeper, and he lets out a moan.

Hal opens one lazy eye.  "I can't turn my back on you two for a minute."  He crawls towards them over the corpses.

Hal positions himself on top of them, and Fergus grunts beneath their combined weight.  Cutler smiles.  And as the sun rises over their new world, he comes with Hal's name on his lips.

\---

Mr Snow requisitions the Eurostar to take him from Paris to London.  Hal greets him with the appropriate pomp and ceremony, and ushers him to his limousine.  A perfectly choreographed crowd cheers him on his way.

They visit the resettlement camp in Regent's Park.  Row upon row of tents, but there's sanitation: it will be sufficient until the new facilities are finished.  A group of children welcome him with a song, and hand him a bouquet of flowers.  They're thin, they're frightened, but they'll live – until it's the right time for them to die.

"Those early camps were an indulgence," he tells Hal as they walk back to the car.  "This is much less wasteful."

Their little procession heads south across Parliament Square.  The statues of Abraham Lincoln and the other rabble have been cleared to make room for all the crosses and the scaffolds.  There's still a patch of scarred earth where they tore down Westminster Abbey.

"You wouldn't believe what I had to do to persuade the bishop to deconsecrate the place," Hal chuckles.

It's an amusing anecdote.  Hal has always been good at telling a story, but today he's smiling too much and there's something forced about the way he laughs.  Snow hopes that it isn't the prelude to another attempted coup.  He'd hate to lose Hal, especially after that regrettable business with Wyndham.

Their last stop is the old St Thomas' hospital, now converted into one of the human propagation units.  Hal carries out the introductions.

"I think you already know our Minister for Human Resources, Nick Cutler."  

When they reach the end of the tour, Cutler presents Mr Snow with a baby.  Snow holds the squirming bundle at arm's length.  

"Am I supposed to eat it?" he enquires.  "Babies give me indigestion."

There – he can see it again, that little flicker of unease.  Snow could almost imagine that Hal's concerned for his protégé, but sentimentality was never one of his weaknesses.

"It's the first of our new arrivals," Cutler says, rescuing the infant and wrapping it in a blanket .

"Just make sure that we have a healthy breeding population," Snow tells him as they leave.

As they drive down the Mall, Snow watches them raise his flag above Buckingham Palace.  Bunting flutters from the railings: red, white and black.  The heads of the former occupants adorn the spikes on either side of the gateway.  It's a nice touch.  That's something he's always liked about Hal: his attention to detail.  Snow steps out onto the red carpet, and the crowd chants his name.

"They'll want you to make a public appearance," Hal says.

Snow sees no need to have himself installed in the throne room: this is just a chat between two old friends.  They sit in easy chairs by the window and stare out over the city.  There's a haze over the river: the Battersea incineration plant runs around the clocks these days.  He's offered a selection of plump young lads and lasses, but he waves them away and lets Hal serve him from the decanter.

"The facts are simple," Snow says.  "There are too many of us and too few of them.  We're going to have to thin our ranks."

Hal doesn't answer.  Mr Snow takes a strawberry from the dish, and Hal's eyes follow it as he lifts it to his mouth and sinks his teeth into the succulent flesh.  He leans forwards and studies Hal's face.

"Is that going to be a problem?"

Hal slams his glass onto the table.  "Give me the list of names.  I'll line them up in Trafalgar Square for you, and –"

Snow smiles.  Anger; fear; overcompensation.  Finally, he understands what's wrong – and, really, Hal needn't have worried.

"I've been thinking about it, too," Snow sighs, "that stubborn humanity of yours.  Sometimes I can almost smell it inside you, eating away at you like a cancer."

"No," Hal says, but it comes out sounding like a question.  He's never learnt to lie to Mr Snow.

"Oh Hal," Snow murmurs, "it's nothing to be ashamed of.  When the time comes, we'll face it together, you and I."  

Snow rests his hand on top of Hal's; a tremor passes through it, and subsides.  

"I'm here for you, Hal."  Mr Snow's grip tightens.  "I'll always be here."


End file.
